The house was silent save for their own breathing and footsteps. They walked through the living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, marveling at the completeness of the mailman’s insane renovation. The horrible, putrid smell grew stronger as they moved into the hallway. Mike, in the lead now, pushed open a bedroom door.

And there was Howard.

It was clear from the strength of the stench, a sickening acrid odor of gas and bile and feces, that Howard had long since started to rot, but the signs were not readily visible on his face. The mailman had crudely painted Howard’s lips with a dark-red lipstick, and ineptly applied eye shadow ringed the postmaster’s widely staring eyes. There were twin rose circles of rouge on his pale sunken cheeks. Howard’s hair had continued to grow after death, and it was piled on top of his head in a feminine swirl, held in place by greasy perfumed mousse. His toenails and fingernails had continued to grow as well and were obscenely long. The mailman had painted them a bright red.

He sat in a chair in the center of the room, staring at a dead television set, the only other piece of furniture in the room. On the floor surrounding him were crusts of moldy bread, old Twinkie wrappers, and the bones of rats.

Mike took a walkie-talkie from one of the other policemen and told the patrolling officers what they had found, requesting that the coroner come to Howard’s after he had finished with the chief.

Doug stepped out of the room and walked down the hall, through the living room, and outside to catch his breath. Even with his nose plugged he had been able to smell the rot, and his stomach had churned as he saw what had been done to the postmaster. Part of him had wanted to grab Mike and shake him and say, “I told you so,” but he knew that that was stupid and petty and that this was not the time or place for it.

He stood on the dead lawn, staring up at the sky, breathing. It was getting late. The sun was beginning to sink, the shadows to lengthen. In other towns throughout the state, throughout the country, people were settling down to dinner, talking, watching the news. But here such normalcy was merely a memory.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Mike. “The patrols report no sign of him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

The creek, Doug started to say, but then he saw the thin sliver of moon hovering over the dimming horizon in the east. He remembered the mailman’s dance of triumphant celebration. “I know where he is,” he said, looking confidently into the policeman’s eyes. “Get everyone together. Everyone. We can’t let him get away this time.”